Project: Fist
by Zunurina
Summary: Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight. It helps. It helps. It helps. He knows it does. He just can't remember why.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

 **This was supposed to be going one way and it went a complete other. Whatever. I'm done with it. If y'all like it, you like it. If you don't, well, lets hope HYDRA erases it from your brains...?**

* * *

Barnes, James Buchanan.  
Sergeant.  
Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.

His tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth. The silence is unbearable, the only break being a hoarse voice he barely recognizes as his own. It's hot. His vision is blurry; and that damn glow of the room isn't making things any easier.

Barnes, James Buchanan.  
Sergeant.  
Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.

Name, rank, and serial number. It helps to repeat them. To hear something. To speak without saying anything. He knows he can't tell them.

He pauses.

Tell what? He doesn't remember.

Tell who? He can't remember that either.

Barnes, James Buchanan.  
Sergeant.  
Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.

It helps. It helps. It helps. He knows it does. He just can't remember why.

He hears footsteps. Hurried. Nervous. Papers rustling. More footsteps. Going away. He whimpers. Footsteps and papers mean pain. But pain means there is someone there and he isn't left in silence. He almost prefers the pain. The silence is back.

Barnes, James Buchanan.  
Sergeant.  
Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.

He hears more footsteps. A hand touches his chest. He should flinch. The last hand that touched him was only making way for needles but he's just so tired.

Barnes, James Buchanan.  
Sergeant.  
Three-two-five-"

"Bucky." He stops. He knows that voice. Its familiar. He knows it. He knows it. He knows it.

"Its me. Its Steve."

Steve? A memory comes to him. A tiny little punk with blonde hair, trying to join the army. Failing. Trying again. Failing. Oh right. Steve. Steve is friend. His friend. The little guy that gets into fights. He's here? His vision finally starts to clear and thank God he recognizes him. It is Steve. The little blonde punk is here.

He doesn't realize he says his name out loud until Steve is nodding. Agreeing. Yeah, it really is Steve. Its not just his mind playing tricks again.

Suddenly, the kid is urging him up. Pulling him to his feet. James –wait, Steve said his name is Bucky– shakes the last of the cobwebs from his mind. Its then he notices something different. Steve is cradling his head, looking like he's about to cry.

"I thought you were dead." He says. Bucky ignores him, looking straight into his friend's chest. Shouldn't he be staring _over_ blonde hair?

"I thought you were smaller." He says. A crash sounds from somewhere, drawing Steve's attention before he can reply. Bucky stands up on his toes. Surely this isn't right. He distinctly remembers being the taller one of the two of them.

Gunshots sound and Steve pulls him closer.

"Come on." He urges. Bucky tries. He tries to walk on his own but Steve ends up dragging him halfway out of the room before he can make his legs work again. He's walked maybe three hours in the last month. He's surprised his body begins to work so quickly.

"What happened to you?" He asks. Steve continues helping him to the door. Too safety.

"I joined the army."

Bucky huffs. He joined the army too and all he got was a lousy three months strapped to a table getting experimented on and–

Shit.

He remembers.

Doctor Arnim Zola. Zola was experimenting on him. Injecting him with a serum. A super soldier serum. One that was supposed to make him strong and completely unbeatable. To make him super. Bucky shudders, remembering the alarmingly fast rate of healing after being injected with a fresh dose of the serum. That and the nausea, pain, and torture that followed. He remembers the hallucinations and he grips Steve a little tighter to make sure the appearance of his friend isn't just another figment of his imagination.

"What did they do to you?" He asks Steve. The man takes a moment to explain how he volunteered for Project: Rebirth and became taller, stronger, and heavier; finally able to hold Bucky up rather than the other way around.

Bucky feels sick.

"Did it hurt?" He asks. Steve nods.

"A little." _A lot_.

Bucky knows he shouldn't but he feels a little better after that. At least he's not weak. At least it hurt, even for tough little Steve. The punk who could take four punches to the jaw and still bait his attacker.

"Is it permanent?" He asks.

"So far." Steve sounds excited.

Bucky just feels sick.


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky chooses not to tell anyone about Zola's experiments on him. He gives the official report, telling Colonel Phillip and Agent Carter the Zola used him for physical and psychological torture. Agent Carter gives him a strange look when he tells them he doesn't know Zola's purpose but she looks away when Steve enters the tent. Bucky knows his mental state is unmistakable, so he blames it on combat exhaustion and the psychiatrist that inevitably sees him agrees. Steve says nothing. He only collects Bucky and directs him to his personal quarters to rest.

Bucky can't sleep.

He spends days lying awake hoping that sleep will come but all he can think about is the table and the straps that held him down. Papers Rustling. Footsteps. Pain. Silence.

Barnes, James Buchanan.  
Sergeant.  
Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.

He doesn't realize he's whispering it out loud until someone is poking him, shaking him, telling him to wake up.

Wake up.

No. Too much. He doesn't want anymore. He can't take another round of the injections. The pain. The silence. To not feel anything, yet be aware of everything. He lashes out blindly. His fist connects with solid flesh.

Steve's black eye lasts two days and Agent Carter doesn't understand why it isn't gone in just a few hours.

Bucky only feels nauseous as he's sent to London for recuperation.

* * *

Almost a month of R&R passes and Bucky finds himself growing more and more restless. The other guys, Dugan, Falsworth, Dernier, and the others seem happy enough to waste away in the pub at all hours of the day. But Bucky can't make himself enjoy more than a few hours with them. Its not that he doesn't want too. It's just that it's easier being away from them. It's hard to conceal bloodshot eyes and shaking hands from the smartest men in the allied army.

It's even harder to hide from Steve.

A part of him screams no when Steve asks him to go back into battle with him. But another part says yes. The part that can heal wounds faster than they should. The part that can give Steve a black eye. The part that becomes more and more restless with each day in London. That's the part that says yes. And before he knows it, Bucky finds himself telling Steve that he'll go to war with him, but only if he promises to stay the Steve that he knew in Brooklyn. The Steve that saved him from Zola's laboratory.

And he has to keep the costume.

Steve agrees.

Bucky laughs.

It's a hollow laugh, tired and strained. He knows Steve is going to say something. Bucky feels his chest tightening at the thought of it. He's beyond relieved when Agent Carter walks in wearing a red dress that looks just close to perfect on her.

She talks to Steve. Bucky tries his hand at flirting with her. She's a pretty dame and he hopes that his failure or success –he's an optimistic sort of guy– will keep Steve off his back at least for a little while. He fails spectacularly. Agent Carter is absolutely smitten with Steve and he's completely into her. Bucky pretends to let it bother him but he's actually quite proud and a little relieved too. He knows he's a mess. He really doesn't want to bother with girls right now. Agent Carter leaves. Bucky complains about her ignoring him.

Steve buys him another drink.

He's too tired to finish it.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Well would ya lookit that. I made a second chapter for something I thought was sort of sucky. Guess my head says its good? That or my brain refuses to let go of it. I've sort of got a 3rd chapter getting mapped out in my head so this may actually go on.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky is fairly certain he's gone mad. Mad like the hatter in the book his mother would read he and Steve when they were young.

He's not sure how but at some point Steve, he and the others have become collectively known as "Captain America and the Howling Commandos". Bucky refuses to acknowledge the fact that his own battle cries are what gives Dum Dum the idea for their name. Bucky shivers.

Its cold.

Damn cold.

They are sitting high in the Alps waiting for a train to come into view. The train harbors _him_. Zola. The man Bucky still loses sleep over. It comes a little easier now, sleep does. But Steve still wakes him up sometimes with a worried face. He says that Bucky keeps repeating the same thing over and over again.

Name. Rank. Serial number.

Bucky brushes it off each time. Its nothing he tells Steve. Steve only gives him a worried glare. But now he's tired. He hasn't slept in – he's not sure how long. Much too long.

Ever since Peggy –not Agent Carter, she's a friend now– brought them the mission Bucky finds himself slipping back into his fears. Food has lost its taste –not that it had much to begin with– and sleep has once again become a luxury of the past. He finds himself unable to hold onto a glass of water without spilling its contents all over.

Now, as he stands next to Steve, watching Morita listen to HYDRA's radio communications he feels his chest begin to tighten and he's sweating. He turns to look at the zipline they are going to use in order to board the moving train. It's a long way down.

"You remember that time I made you ride the cyclone on Coney Island?" He asks aloud. Partly because he wants to know what Steve will say and partly because he hopes talking will dissuade his oncoming panic.

"Yeah. And I threw up." Steve says. Bucky looks down. Down into the deep ravine.

"This isn't payback, is it?"

Steve grins.

"Now why would I do that?" _Hell yes_.

Bucky forces a smile. It must look real enough since Steve smiles back before one of the others speaks up.

"We were right. Zola's on the train." Gabe says from behind them. "HYDRA dispatcher gave him permission to open up the throttle. Wherever he's going they must need him bad."

Bucky looks at Steve. He feels something coil tight within him. Something that wasn't there when he first arrived overseas. Something that becomes dangerous when those he cares about are in danger. The same thing that gives Steve black eyes on nights he dreams so deeply yet so fitfully he cannot wake. The thing that heals scratches in a few hours. But he quashes it down. Tells it to brood. To be silent. To be patient.

And he waits.

Steve's eyebrow raises. He knows something isn't quite right. But he says nothing. Instead he puts on his helmet and becomes the man that HYDRA fears, Captain America.

"Let's get going, cause they're moving like the devil." Falsworth says from his spot. Bucky hears the train coming as Steve prepares himself.

"We only got about a 10 second window. You miss that window, we're bugs on a windshield."

No kidding Steve.

"Mind the gap."

Very good Falsworth.

"Better get movin' bugs!"

Bucky rolls his eyes. How did he get slapped on a team of walking one-liners? The next thing he knows, he's watching Steve disappear down the zipline and suddenly he's following.

The blast of cold air takes his breath away momentarily and for a moment the horror of the war fades away. The thought of how close Zola is and how he is very soon going to have to face his abuser disappears. Honestly, how many men will be able to go back home and boast about ziplining down the Swiss Alps with Captain America?

The elation doesn't last long and he hits the train with a resounding thud that makes his frozen limbs remember their frequent aches and pains. He ignores the tightening of his chest and swallows his nausea before he follows Steve down along the train to an entrance. Gabe has followed them down and will take the roof towards Zola. Bucky enters the train behind Steve. It's just the two of them this time.

HYDRA men bombard them before they've gotten into the second car.

It happens quickly. Steve goes forward and Bucky hesitates momentarily. He didn't like the energy. The buzz in the air. Of course it gets them separated. Bucky turns around at the sound of boots.

He doesn't hesitate.

He shoots.

He switches sides, hunkering behind some boxes and mentally cursing himself for bringing a rifle into such close quarters. He should have known better.

Behind him, he hears Steve struggling against an enemy soldier with one of HYDRA's newer weapons. He has no time to spare though as he does his best to keep his own hide intact.

There's one left.

He's out of bullets.

Absently, he presses into the wall and in turn something presses into his hip. He looks down.

God bless Dernier. Before they had left the Frenchman had strapped a Colt M1911 to Bucky's side, mumbling something about never having time to reload. Bucky makes a mental note to thank his teammate when he gets back.

He shoots, crossing over to the other side for a better vantage point on the last HYDRA soldier. He pulls out, trying to see but mostly just hoping luck will be on his side.

He shoots once. Twice.

He ducks. That one was a little too close for comfort.

Three times. Four and the barrel clicks.

Shit.

He slides down into the wall. James Buchanan Barnes does not give up. James Buchanan Barnes does not back down. But now seems like its probably going to be the moment he's either captured or killed… Again.

Unbidden the familiar chant echoes in his mind.

Barnes, James Buchanan.  
Sergeant.  
Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.

He shakes it away. Now is not a good time.

Suddenly, the door slides open and, sweet savior of all, Steve tosses him a loaded pistol. Now all he needs is that damn HYDRA soldier out of his little nook in the middle of the train-car.

Steve fixes the issue.

One well-placed shot later and all is quiet again.

"I had him on the ropes." Bucky says. So shoot him. He gets his one-liners from the best after all. Steve assures him that he knows his help was unnecessary.

 _You're welcome anyway_.

Bucky freezes from reloading his pistol at the sound of a HYDRA weapon charging. Steve barely has time to cover them both with the shield. The blast throws him into the far wall and completely tears away the other side of the train car. Bucky scrambles for the shield. Holding it up as he shoots at the soldier.

Time stops.

He's flying backwards. Something cold and metal slips through his fingers and he's just able to grab it in time.

He's hanging over a very quickly moving precipice.

Steve is there, yelling. Reaching. Not close enough. A little closer.

Bucky can feel his fingers slipping. The thin metal bar buckles under his weight. His chest tightens. He can't breath.

He falls.

* * *

 **A/N:**

So I was stuck on this for a bit, trying to decide the style of writing and exactly where to start/stop but then I finally got around to reading the reviews left and wow... talk about inspiration. Y'all stroked my ego just enough to get this out of me.

This chapter is a little longer than the others so the extra is special for my lovely reviewers.

I have probably about 4-5 more chapters planned out for this fic. There may end up being a bonus chapter after I go to watch Civil War. Who knows? Inspiration may strike.


	4. Chapter 4

He doesn't remember falling. He doesn't remember any pain either. He remembers the cold. The red stains in the snow.

The flower.

He wonders how long he's been here. Days? Months? Or has it only been a few hours? Its quiet. Time does not seem to exist here.

It's a bit late for that flower to be blooming.

His nose stings. The snow stopped falling hours -days?- ago but the wind still blows about what hasn't yet frozen to the ground. It covers his bare fingers. His left arm is completely numb and his right barely moves.

Or is it too early? It could be too early for flowers to bloom.

His back hurts. Intensely. Almost as though he had fallen from the mountaintops into the valley far down below.

The flower is furry.

He wonders how he got here. Also, he wonders where _here_ is. Sure, he's lying in the snow, on a riverbank, at the bottom of a valley, next too a furry flower. Surely there is a story to that.

Who the _hell_ put a furry flower there anyway?

But where exactly is _here_? He hears voices. Maybe they can tell him where he is? He tries to lift his arm to gain their attention but the damn thing won't move.

He's pretty sure the flower is mocking him.

He tries his other arm. This one lifts though it's like watching someone else's arm. He really can't feel it. A shout rings through the air. It can barely be hear above the wind. They must have seen him.

The flower is definitely mocking him.

Two men come into view. They're speaking a language he doesn't know. A lot of rolling r's and sounds coming from the mouth rather than the throat. They wear big coats and hats that remind him of the flower. Furry.

Edelweiss. That's what it's called.

The men circle him like dogs coming in for their prey. He just watches them. They converse back and forth in their strange language. He waits.

It's a furry, medicinal, flower that grows in the Swiss Alps.

The men seem to come to a decision. They position themselves at either end of him. One at his feet and one at his head. He watches the one pick up his feet and see hands snake under his shoulders.

The edelweiss is known to symbolize nobility and purity.

His left shoulder feels… strange. He blinks. Trying to clear the snowy blur from his eyes.

His arm is gone.

It looks to have been severed just above the elbow. No wonder it didn't move. That explains the stained snow as well. Curious. He watches as the men begin to carry him away.

He asks them not to step on his flower.

They trample it anyway.

* * *

A/N:

Dearest Reviewers you are so precious to me. I had a slightly rough day feeling pretty lonely and just re-reading the kind things you've said made me feel so much better. Love and virtual kisses to each of you.

So this chapter was inspired by one of my own experiences. I had one of those moments a while back where you know its you but you feel like you're watching it all from the outside. And there's that one teeny insignificant detail that you keep coming back too, almost like a coping mechanism. Something to try and ground yourself so you don't have a complete meltdown. I figured falling down a ravine from a moving train is a pretty good time to feel detached from your body.

So the next chapter will have some Civil War spoilers... ish. Kind of. It will (hopefully?) blend in seamlessly so you won't really get that its a spoiler unless you've watched the movie. But this is your warning.  
If you haven't watched the movie yet then shoo! Go watch it! Its amazing! The Bucky feels are ugh! And Sam? Oh he and a certain someone are absolutely priceless together. Go watch it!


	5. Chapter 5

Ok. Final warning. This chapter does have Civil War spoilers. Hard to tell unless you've seen the movie but its there.

Also there's brief descriptions of torture, control, etc.

And Finally, I just realized I forgot to put a disclaimer in chapter one. Its here now. If I owned Marvel I wouldn't be having to disclaim it. There. Done.

* * *

Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.

He repeats it too himself. It's important. It feels important.

Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.

He is poked and prodded by the doctors when he says it out loud. He stays quiet now but that only makes them test him more. He doesn't remember much. It's all a blurry haze. There was snow. Trees. A tall man. Blood. A train. Screaming. So much blood.

Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.

His arm feels heavy. It's made of metal now. It looks, _feels_ , too big for his body. He knows it's not his real arm but he doesn't remember getting it. He doesn't remember a lot of things. Remembering makes his head hurt.

It whirs quietly. The men surrounding him startle, some glaring, some cursing. He's picked up the strange language fast. They speak nothing else.

Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.

It must be important. Why else would his head insist on hurting so much. He wants to ask. But the doctors only ask questions, the guards don't speak and that only leaves him with _Him_.

The Handler.

He asks him. The Handler glares at him and tells him to never speak of those numbers again. The next day he is thrown him in the pit.

He doesn't like the pit.

They say its training. But he knows its just amusement. The guards place bets to see which of the other prisoners will knock him down.

Winners are rewarded.

His clothes are dripping with the blood of those that lose.

When he is too tired to continue he is thrown into the cage. The cage is worse. Here, he is stripped naked and blinded by white lights. It is cold. Guards pelt him with their refuse. The noise is unbearable. He is not allowed to sleep. He is not allowed to eat. He can do nothing but suffer and remember.

Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.

Sometimes another prisoner is put in with him but they never last long. The noise, lights and the cold kill them. He wonders why it doesn't kill him. He is not allowed to touch their rotting flesh.

He doesn't know how long he is left in the cage but finally the noise is turned down to a steady hum and the lights are shut off. He shudders. This has never happened before. He does not remember much but he _knows_ that this has never happened before.

"Желание."

A strange voice says. He looks up from where he has huddled in the corner.

"Ржaвый."

He has not heard a human voice in so long.

"Семнадцать."

It is a quiet voice. He cannot decide if it is the voice of a man or a woman.

"Рассвет."

He does not care.

"Печь."

His head throbs. The words are spoken each time the pain subsides.

"Девять."

Each word is soft. Spoken gently. Kindly.

"добросердечный."

He wonders what he did to deserve such sweet respite from the torture.

"возвращение на родину."

He will do it again.

"Один."

The voice curls around him. Sweet and gentle.

"грузовой вагон."

Yes. Anything for this voice to continue; for him to not be alone in this cage. He will forget the numbers. He will never speak nor think of them again. He says this aloud to the walls. But the voice does not continue. The silence is deafening. The dark is disconcerting.

The noise turns up. Louder than before. The lights flash on. Brighter than ever.

He screams.

* * *

 **A/N:**

This one actually took me a long time to sit down and write. I kept starting and stopping. Then hating where it was going and starting over again. This is the best version.

I also spent abut two hours deciding how to write out the Russian bits. Whether to try and write them phonetically, write out the translation but underline it etc, but I finally just decided to stick with the Cyrillic alphabet and leave it at that. If you've watched Civil War you know the translations and have at least an idea on the pronunciation. I'm not positive if the words are the exact same as they are in the movie but the translations _should_ be correct.

If you haven't seen the movie yet than what the hell are you doing reading this!? Get out!


	6. Chapter 6

It starts the same way each time. He is taken off the ice. As he unfreezes a serum is injected into his body to replace his damaged cells. Liquid is pumped out of his lungs. Before he can even stand he is dragged to the chair.

He does not remember many things. But he remembers the chair each time. He remembers the pain and horror of the chair. Of having everything stripped from his mind. A blank space where pictures used to hang. He remembers forgetting.

Each time, as he screams in frustration and pain, he hears the words.

Words that accompany the lull in the electric currents. Words that promise respite no matter how small. No matter how fleeting. Words that make him forget.

"Доброе утроб." His Handler says. He looks up. It is a different man. An older man. It makes no difference.

"Готовый подчиняться."

* * *

It is his first solo mission.

At least that is what the doctors and scientists that prep his arm say. They act as though he cannot hear them. That is good. He is a weapon. An assassin. The fist of HYDRA. He should be quiet. Unseen. Unheard. Unknown.

He shifts.

His arm whirs, startling the scientists. Before, he may have laughed at them. He's not sure. He doesn't remember. But now he stays quiet. Waiting.

The Handler shows up. He throws a folder in the Assassin's lap. He stares at it.

Waits.

The Handler takes his time. Lighting a cigarette. Asking the chief scientist about his wife. Blowing the smoke into the Killer's face. Finally, he gestures towards the folder. The Weapon opens it.

"Your target is a man with extreme political influence. He's old. HYDRA dictates that its time for him to retire."

Smoke curls in the air.

"You're job is to infiltrate, study, and dispose of your target. There is no extraction. There is no back up. Failure will result in your death. Do you understand?"

He does not answer. He is not supposed too.

They dress him in tactical gear. Arm him with weapons. Fine-tune the reaction time in his arm. He is given a mask. They say it hides his skin in the shadows but he knows it's a muzzle. Meant to keep him quiet. To remind him of his place. They send him out.

He will not fail.

* * *

He is kept awake long enough to see the fruits of his labors.

It was disgustingly easy. He never even had to raise a hand. The man's old age and stupidity practically did the job for him. Infiltration was nothing. For such an important figure his _dacha_ was grossly under guarded. After that, all he had to do was slip one too many of the man's anticoagulant pills into a few of his –many– drinks.

The man's poor health did the rest.

He is not allowed to be proud of his actions. He should not feel pride. He should not feel.

He does not.

The Handler watches as he is placed in his tube. His lungs are pumped full of liquid. A serum is injected to protect his body against salt deposits, shrinking and dehydrating cells and the stress of the freeze. The Handler flicks the last of his cigarette away. In the background the sound of a radio newscaster laminates about the tragic death of Russia's leader Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin. The Handler lights another cigarette. As the tube begins to close, he hears it. Something he will not remember the next time he finds himself in the chair. But its something ingrained in his mind. Something he will always _know_.

"молодец. Зймний Солдат."

* * *

 **A/N:**

Доброе утро - Good Morning.  
Готовый подчиняться - Ready to comply.  
молодец. Зймний Солдат - Well done. Winter Soldier. (молодец is literally translated as "ace" or "fine fellow" but is usually translated to English as "well done." or "good job".)

I'll be perfectly honest with you. I'm just learning Russian. I'm not good at all yet. If anyone has a better translation (grammar rules!) please, please, please PM me and let me know. I'm having to self teach and its not easy or ideal.

So the most dangerous part about (hypothetical-at-the-moment-scientists-are-working-on-it) cryopreservation is the formation of ice crystals in and outside of the cells, dehydration, and solute deposits (big one is salt from what I understand). HYDRA would have to have a sort of cryoprotectant in order to keep Bucky's body safe from the dangers. I would also think they'd need some form of a serum to help jumpstart his body into healing mode since his super-soldier serum isn't as perfected as Steve's.

Fluorocarbon. Look it up. Talk about totally badass stuff! I'd imagine that they'd use it on Bucky to give his lungs a way to adapt back into breathing during/directly after the defrost. Especially while rehydrating his body.

Are author's notes annoying? I really can't decide.


	7. Chapter 7

He does remember.

"молодец. Зймний Солдат."

Every time he completes a mission he hears it. When the old Handler disappears and is replaced with a younger it changes slightly. But it means the same thing.

"молодец. Солдат."

Each mission starts the same. The words are said. The phrase triggers. He gives his compliance. He gets his mission.

* * *

This is his first mission in America. It is a strange country. Full of colors, noises… _humans_. He ignores them in favor of his mission. He has back up this time. He knows they're there to keep him on a leash. But his plan is too use them to his advantage. They are wary. Everyone is wary around him but he has worked with this team before and they are more guarded than usual. He does not know why.

He does not care.

He has a target.

He is stationed in a schoolhouse on the seventh floor up and on the southeast corner of the building. One floor below him, a team member lies in wait. He carries a gun custom made to be exactly the same as his own. It is of Italian make. The rifling is exact. It is his job to take the blame. To keep the Winter Soldier a secret.

No matter the cost.

The Soldier preps his sights. HYDRA operatives are stationed throughout the area. Some are even in the target's company. Others are disguised in the gathering crowds. They will serve as witnesses. Only he and the man below him have the appropriate weapons. The Soldier checks his sights one last time. The crowds are getting louder.

His target is approaching.

The car rounds the corner. Four people are inside. He only has one target. The target is leaning forward. He waits. When the target sits back, he takes the shot.

It misses.

The Winter Soldier has never missed.

He growls angrily and shoots twice more in rapid succession. Both hit the target. One exits through the target's throat and hits anther passenger's back. It is an unnecessary kill but one he is willing to accept. His target is dead. He has completed his job. An operative takes the rifle from him and exchanges it with the man below. The Soldier takes the back staircase.

His mission is over.

* * *

He learns that his missed shot had been mysteriously bent out of the way. Not by wind. It had taken a ninety-degree turn before disappearing into the dirt. His Handler mentions that there are rumors of a superior race of humans. Humans born with abilities no man can imagine. Perhaps with the ability to control metal.

The Soldier scoffs at this. A man that can control metal? Why did he not crush his arm? He ignores the rest of his Handler's musings. He did his job. He completed his mission.

He is put under until his next mission.

* * *

 **A/N:**

I'm not overly pleased with this chapter. There is so much information available about the JFK assassination (if you didn't pick that up... surprise! Bucky assassinated JFK in the comics) that you really have to read and research _everything_ in order to get some semblance about what happened. After the twentieth eye witness account, rereading the ballistics report and autopsy report eight times, and countless theories and articles I pretty much rolled my eyes and decided I'm going with my version.  
It's fictional!

I know the single bullet theory has pretty much been debunked but it worked for this so I went with it.

Also... Magneto cameo!

But seriously. If Magneto tried to stop the JFK assassination than he literally failed to a guy with a metal arm. An entire arm made of metal! Shame Magneto. Shame.

Also, I will be posting a new story that is a spin off of this one. It was originally going to be the next chapter but it spawned into its own thing. If you're interested, keep an eye out. The first chapter is coming very soon!


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